


Backslide

by Tyranno



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Damian Wayne, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Evil Superman, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, not my fault jondami has so many relationship tags -- blame dc for giving him 3 names, some superman bashing (light)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: After narrowly managing to escape an apocalyptic world, Damian and Jon arrive way back in the past, where nobody knows them and the JLA are only a few years into being established. The rules are different now, they can't be superheroes and they must fight to stay hidden.And they need to find a way, at any cost, to prevent Superman from ending the world.Discontinued sorry :(





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jon / Damian are late twenties / early thirties in this  
> .  
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> .  
> .  
> .  
> .

Smoke coiled over the ruins of Gotham City.

The landscape was a messy grey-black, the roads buried under rubble. Visibility was poor. A dust cloud as thick as fog had settled around the silent rubble, about one storey in height. What remained of the skyscrapers were looming shadows in the dust fog, uneven mounds of cement and steel supports.

“How safe are we right now?”

Damian Wayne bit into an apple. As he chewed, he tapped the screen of the batmobile. A thick layer of dust had already settled over the two of them, and his head and shoulders were coated grey. “Safe enough,” He responded.

Jonathan Kent leaned back in the passenger seat. Dusty leather creaked as he lifted his head and scoured the bright blue sky.

“Don’t worry,” Damian said, “He’s in Starling City right now.”

“That was an hour ago,” Jon said, “It took him, what? Two hours to demolish Central City? He could be here any minute.”

Damian finished the apple in silence and tossed the core out of the window. When it hit the rubble, a pale cloud of dust rose and drifted into nothing. The sour smell of paint drying floated through the air. Painted symbols covered the inside and outside of the vehicle, intricate, complex, and, to Damian, utterly meaningless.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Jon’s eyes followed the curve of white enochian script which swept under the steering wheel.

“No,” Damian admitted, tiredly, “I trust Roth, but I’ve never done magic before. And I doubt she even intended for the spell to be used this way.”

Jon bit his lip.

After typing in a few passcode, Damian turned off all electronics in the vehicle that he could get away with, including headlights. The car’s humming switched off and silence rung in his ears. Electricity did not usually mesh well with magic. Even if this was a last-ditch attempt, there was no point in spoiling it prematurely.

Damian did not feel well. It felt like he was stretched thin, his fingers numb and his nerves sanded down. Despite the stitches and bandages, his stomach throbbed viciously as he moved and his fingers were blotchy with bruises, the knuckles split. His eyes itched. Damian wound the window up.

“Either this will explode something and the magic backfires,” Damian said, “Or your crazy, mind-controlled father will return before we can start and destroy everything anyway. So it won’t matter either way.”

“Well, it might work,” Jon suggested.

Damian stared at him.

Slowly, like the clouds parting, Damian felt something in his chest untense. He smiled, just slightly, “Yes, I suppose. This plan might work.”

Jon smiled back.

“I trust you,” Jon said. He lifted Damian’s hand from the steering wheel and held it tightly, avoiding the bleeding knuckles, “There’s nobody I’d rather escape the end of the world with.”

“Against my better judgement,” Damian said, “I trust you too.”

“Damian, if we don’t make it out of here,” Jon said, breathing in sharply, “I just—want you to know that I’ve always… I mean, for a long time, I loved you, and I wanted—”

Damian pressed a kiss to the back of Jon’s hand. It was strange and oddly formal, as if Jon was a high-born medieval maiden. It was very Damian, somehow.

“I know,” Damian said, “Since we were both kids, right?”

Jon stared at him for a long moment. Then his eyebrows knitted together in a frown, “You’re really going to steal the thunder out of my confession?”

Damian smirked, “If we live ’til morning, you can try again. And I’ll give you a proper, glowing response.”

“Oh, right,” Jon said, dropping Damian’s hand.

Damian curled his hand around the steering wheel, turning the ignition. The batmobile rumbled into life, louder and shakier than usual with the dampeners turned off. It felt more like a normal car when it was covered with debris, the sleekness of its black sides lost to the coating of mud. The dust and grit under Jon’s shoes reminded him of his grandparent’s pick-up truck.

There was a distant explosion in the corner of Jon’s vision and he glanced over. From the rumble of what had once been the Gotham docks, a black dot rose into the sky. Jon’s father was about the size of a speck in their wind-shield, hurtling towards them fast enough to break the sound barrier.

“Start driving!” Jon yelped, “Start driving, now!”

Damian shifted into gear and slammed the accelerator down. The car lurched forward, bouncing over the broken road. When it hit flat cement it shot forwards. Around them, the sigils they’d painted flickered into life, bright as clusters of fireflies.

Panic sunk into Jon’s chest as he watched his father barrel towards them. The speed dial ticked steadily upwards. When Damian swerved to avoid a huge support beam, the car swung wildly, the tires lifting off the cement for a worrying moment before they connected again.

The engine roared. Dust that they’d thrown up followed them in a long, ghostly tail. What was left of Gotham shot past their windows, a black blur. The sigils glowed and glowed.

“Come on,” Damian murmured, grip vice-tight on the steering wheel, “Come on, come on.”

Superman was now so close Jon could see his expression, a twisted glare of pure rage. The kryptonian was sharpened to a point, all warmth filed away. There was nothing left of the man Jon remembered.

The car rattled them, as if it was about the burst apart. Enochian burned white-hot around them, giving off an uncomfortable heat. Damian stared at the turn they were steadily approaching. They would have to be slow to make the corner, and they were going too fast. He pressed the accelerator down. Jon made eye-contact with his father, and watched as his eyes heated red as his heat-vision activated. Jon squeezed his eyes shut.

There was a rattling crash as the car collided with something and then—

then

Jon’s eyes blinked open and were met with a cool darkness. The sigils weren’t glowing. There was no sun. There was a deep, thick silence. He stared around the blue-blackness, eyes struggling to adjust.

“Damian,” Jon felt around him, feeling the cool glass of the window and the sleek metal of the door. He stretched his senses and heard a familiar heartbeat and laboured breathing. “Damian, are you awake?”

“Yes,” Damian shifted, slightly.

There was almost no light. Jon strained his eyes, peering around them, “Did we drive off the peer? I think we’re underwater.”

Damian grunted. The smell of blood reached Jon and he startled, “Are you alright?”

“My… stomach,” Damian breathed, “I think the crash tore the stitches.”

Jon’s eyes lingered on him for a moment before he scrambled into the backseat and punched through the back window. Water began to flood inside, icy and black as ink.

“I have to equalise the pressure,” Jon explained, crawling back to the front seat. He went to unclip Damian, but realised that neither of them had done up their seatbelts. “I have to pick you up. Sorry, it might be uncomfortable.”

Damian sighed, but made no objection. Jon lifted him as gently as he could, and sat in the driver’s seat, Damian in his lap. There was a terrible crack of glass as more water forced its way inside, the level already risen enough to lap at Jon’s shoes.

Jon’s eyes turned skyward. He felt like batmobile turn around them very gently as it sunk deeper. The smell of blood filled his mouth and nose, but he didn’t dial down his senses. Water rose to his knees and spilled into his lap, so cold it felt thick and heavy. When they resurfaced, it wouldn’t be over. Kal-El would be waiting.

Jon pulled Damian closer as the water sloshed over the two of them. He listened to Damian’s heart, to his breathing, and swallowed thickly, breathing deeply in an effort to keep himself calm. With one arm wrapped tightly around Damian, Jon rested his free hand on the door frame.

When the water reached their throats, Jon closed his eyes briefly, “Before it covers your mouth, take a big breath.”

It was a mark of how shaken Damian was that he followed orders without comment. As the cold water pressed across his chin, he tilted his head back and took one last gasp. There was a prickle as the water crossed Jon’s hairline.

Black cold engulfed them entirely. Jon bowed his head and struck out with his free hand. The car door buckled on impact, metal twisting, and detached completely. Jon twisted and kicked out, slipping through the gap. He cast a glance back, at the batmobile sinking behind them. Darkness swallowed it.

Jon wrapped both arms around Damian. He didn’t know how deep they were. Even with his senses expanded, he could barely see any light from the surface.

Jon was rarely so grateful for his powers. He shot upwards, fast enough to force his eyes shut, and broke the surface of the water like a bullet, scattering water. Then he stopped dead.

He hung suspended in the air, looking around.

It was night. The moon bared down on him, perfectly circular. He could see the lights of a city in the distance, half-hidden by the lay of the land. A quiet black tarmac road curved in front of them, edging onto the cliff, lined on the other side by trees.

Jon landed silently. He was staring around like an alien just landed. He couldn’t comprehend the blinking city in the distance. When he focused on the gas station two miles away, he could see people milling around absently. He gawked at them.

“I can’t believe it,” Jon said, breathless, “It actually worked!”

Damian let out a rattling breath and Jon snapped back to reality. He bounded to the treeline and cleared enough ground to lie him down. Damian groaned, hands pressed to his stomach.

“Did you stitches open?” Jon asked.

“Can you check?”

“Right,” Jon asked, pressing his hands to Damian’s stomach.

Damian slapped his hands away, “No, with your X-Ray vision, you dolt.”

Jon felt his face heat. He had known Damian over a decade but nobody else could embarrass him so easily. He grinned an apology and switched on his X-Ray vision. He searched Damian’s stomach for a long moment.

“Just a little torn and battered,” Jon switched back to normal vision, “You were pretty lucky.”

Damian breathed deeply, “Where are we?”

Jon shifted away and stood. He waited for an oncoming car to pass and darted towards the city. Within a few feet, he spotted a signpost half-hidden by trees. It read: HAPPY HARBOUR: CITY LIMIT. Jon darted back and reported this.

Damian nodded. His skin was washed out, his eyes dark and unfocused, “Right, Happy Harbour was one of the places that were attacked. So if it’s not smoking ruins we succeeded.”

“We did,” Jon said, still in awe. To have the horrors of the past few months completely wiped away—to have everyone who had died returned to them… even if it was only for the moment, it seemed almost too good to believe.

Damian let out a shuddering breath. Jon realised he was shivering.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked. When he touched Damian’s arm it was stone-cold. “Damian?”

“I’m fine,” Damian’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, “I’ve… lost a lot of blood. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh,” Jon frowned, “What are we going to do for money? Damian, do you—”

“My shoe,” Damian said, without opening his eyes. He lifted his right leg slightly, “Brought some money.”

Jon relaxed. He undid the laces and slipped off the shoe as gently as he could. Sure enough, a thick plastic wrapped wad dropped onto the leaf-litter. He pocketed it before putting Damian’s shoe back on his foot, double knotting the laces.

The forest floor smelled of wet earth and salt was starting to crust in Jon’s hair. He couldn’t relax enough to dial back his senses, so left them heightened, painfully aware of the cars which passed behind him and the rattle in Damian’s chest. He unwrapped the plastic wad to find almost two-hundred dollars in tens and twenties.

“You think of everything, don’t you?” Jon beamed at him.

“S’just small change,” Damian murmured.

“Very funny,” Jon folded the money and slipped it into his pocket, “Come on, we can’t stay here.”

Jon lifted Damian as gently as he could. He couldn’t carry him bridal-style into the city without arousing suspicion so helped Damian settle on his back. Damian wrapped his arms around Jon’s shoulders.

Jon spared one last glance down the cliff. The moon glinted over the dark water like light catching on broken glass. He tore his eyes away and headed towards the city.

*

Jon woke up cold.

He opened his eyes and winced. It took him a few moments to remember that he was in the motel room he’d bought keys to the night before. Sunlight glowed over the floor where he was sleeping. He rolled over and hit the leg of the bed with his shoulder. With a sigh he sat up, blinking blearily, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning,” Damian said from the doorway.

“Hey,” Jon dropped the hands from his face and peered over the bed.

In the full light of morning, Damian looked much worse. His eyes were sunken in deep, puffy black bags. Yellow-green bruises had raised over one eyebrow and his skin had a yellowish, sallow tinge below his warm brown complexion. His hair was still beaded with water from the shower and he had forgone his shirt but had pulled his salt-crusted jeans on again. He rested heavily on the door-frame, looking utterly exhausted.

“There’s something you should know,” Damian said, before Jon could ask how he felt. Damian tossed a paper at him.

Jon smoothed out the paper to find Happy Harbour Quarterly staring back at him. He glanced over the front page of the paper describing a bar opening and the side stories which were about fishing and school results.

“Check the date,” Damian said, scrubbing a towel over his head. He dropped into the desk chair and flipped open his laptop.

Jon’s eyes flicked to the corner. He sucked air through his teeth, _“2007?”_

“I know,” Damian said, “We overshot by a little.”

“A little?” Jon massaged his eyes. “2007, whoa… I’m not even born yet.”

“Me neither, actually,” Damian said, looking thoughtful.

Jon rocked back on his heels, crinkling the paper between his hands. He considered that for a long moment. His mother wouldn’t have grey in her hair any more. Everyone would be so much younger, wouldn’t they? In fact—

“Our families,” Jon said, hollowly, “we can’t go back to them, can we? We can’t be like we were before?”

Damian looked back at him. His eyes were dark, red-rimmed. His whole body was taut, a tension which had occupied him entirely, like a greyhound tensed to sprint. Jon wondered if he’d slept at all the night before.

“No,” Damian said, “We can’t.”

“Right,” Jon said.

Damian watched him for a moment, before turning back to his laptop.

Jon folded the newspaper in his hands. A strange feeling filled his chest, as if his insides had been scraped out, leaving a huge hollowness. It wasn’t such a shocking revelation, not as it should have been. Once his family had been killed, the first time… he wasn’t the same person who had been with them. It was something he wouldn’t be able to return to.

With a deep sigh, Jon stood and stretched. He opened the windows and threw the curtains open and let the sun in.

Happy Harbour was a small city, but energetic. Trees lined every walkway. The sun was warm and rejuvenating, and the sea breeze bracing and refreshing. Every breath seemed to carve away Gotham’s lingering ash from his lungs, filling him with new energy.

Jon allowed himself to relax a little. 2007. It could have been much, much worse. In many ways, he dodged a bullet. 2007. He had over two decades to figure the source of his father’s mental break. He had two decades of relative safety. He had Damian, too.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Damian said, “I bought some sandwiches from the corner-store.”

Jon slipped away from the windowsill, trooping diligently to the fridge. A few bites into the sandwich, he asked, “Who’s laptop is that?”

“Mine,” Damian said, without looking up.

“Okay,” Jon said, “Whose was it originally, then?”

“Still mine,” Damian said, “I bought it. We aren’t going to run out of money, before you asked. I borrowed some.”

Jon sat down on the bed, continuing to eat, “From who?”

“Ra’s,” Damian said, “They have a few offshore accounts that can be accessed from anywhere. They’re for operatives to use in emergencies.”

“Really?” Jon frowned, “Aren’t they going to notice they’re missing?”

“Maybe, but probably not,” Damian said, “I only took a small amount, and I ran it through some programs to make it untraceable. Besides, one of the weaknesses of Ra’s Al Ghul’s enterprise is that money and cargo which disappear often go unreported, because he’s too fond of shooting the messenger. That’s why it was so easy for Talia to overthrow him.”

Jon wasn’t sure three years of bloody civil war counted as ‘easy’, but he didn’t want to argue the point. He was too glad money wasn’t an issue any more.

Damian paused typing, “You might want to choose another surname.”

“Oh,” Jon frowned, “I guess you’re right.”

“Jon Lane?” Damian suggested.

“Maybe...”

“What was your grandmother’s maiden name? Clark? Jon Clark sounds alright.”

Jon ate in silence for a moment, and swallowed thickly.

“You can stay Jon Kent, if you want,” Damian said, quietly.

Jon said, “It’s just… I don’t want to lose that so quickly.”

“There are hundreds of Jonathan Kents around,” Damian said, “The world can suffer another.”

“Thank you,” Jon said finishing off the last of his sandwich, “It’s a shame you can’t do the same. Al Ghul-Wayne is much less common.”

“Well...” Damian turned away, “I thought… if you’re a Kent, I should be Kent too.”

“Why would be have the same last—” Jon’s eyes went wide. He stood up sharply.

Damian was very pointedly not looking at him.

“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” Jon said, with warm feeling, “I confessed not ten hours ago and you want to be married.”

“You can say no,” Damian hissed, sourly.

Jon padded forwards and wrapped his arms around the other man, burying his nose in the mess of slightly damp black hair. He breathed in the smell of shampoo and soap.

“Sorry,” Jon said, quietly, “you startled me.”

Damian leaned back, but said nothing.

“We’re practically married already. I mean, we’ve lived together for at least eight years now,” Jon murmured, absently, “I cook for you, and we alternated chores, and you always repair my costumes and we spend almost all our time together and—… Man, why didn’t I realise you were into me?”

Damian relaxed a little, “I did honestly think you knew. I wondered if there was something we were missing.”

“Only the end of the world,” Jon muttered.

Damian turned in his chair. He gave Jon his full attention, and it was startlingly sharp. “This isn’t just because of that,” Damian said, voice hard, “I do love you. I think I always have.”

Jon’s heart flipped.

Jon leaned forward, tentatively, and kissed him. He felt Damian smile against him, and a hand card through his hair at the nape of his neck. He broke off and looked down at him.

“You’re all I have left,” Damian said, quietly, “You’re the only piece of my past that remains. I want you to be my family, like this.”

Jon watched him. There was a feeling in his chest just shy of painful. “That’s what I want too,” He said.


	2. Chapter 2

William Franklin hadn’t realised he had zoned out until a knock on his door brought him back to earth. He refocused his eyes, looking over the dense, tightly written papers which littered his desk, setting them aside with a sigh. He swirled his whiskey around his glass, the ice-cubes clinking, and glanced up as the handle turned. 

The broad, dark mahogany doors to his office opened a crack, and his assistant, Marilyn, poked her head around the door. “Someone to see you, Mr. Franklin,” She said, pushing her glasses up her nose. 

“This late?” William glanced at the clock. 

“He apologises for the hour,” Marilyn said, “He says he’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Who is it, then?” 

“Damian Kent.” 

William frowned, “I don’t have any clients by that name.” 

“He used the client line,” Marilyn said, “I assumed you’d given it to him.” 

“Not me. It must have been one of my other clients,” William rubbed his eyes. Usually, before even interviewing a client, he wanted to do a full background check, and speak to their previous lawyers if possible. He was working in Gotham, after all. 

“I can send him away,” Marilyn offered. 

“No, no. Send him in.” 

Marilyn nodded and slipped out of sight, door clicking closed behind her. A few moments passed, which William used to finish his whiskey and steel himself for what might happen. Then the door cracked open again. 

The man who walked through the door was strikingly handsome, a rich, dark complexion and captivating green eyes. Despite his casual dress, there was something aristocratic about his features, and the way he held his head. He strode over to the chair in front William’s desk and sat down, setting a briefcase down next to him. 

“I apologise for the late hour. It’s a longer drive than I assumed from Happy Harbour,” Damian said, and his timbre was oddly precise, his words crisp and with a hint of an accent William couldn’t identify, “My name is Damian Kent.”

“William Franklin,” William shook Damian’s hand. He tidied away the papers which littered his desk. “Were you referred by another of my clients?” 

“No,” Damian said, “But I’ve already paid your assistant for the meeting, double you usual rate.” 

William nodded. He doubted Marilyn would have let him in without checking if he had money. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and prayed his wife would forgive him for another late night. 

“You’re interested in patents, I hear?” Damian lifted the briefcase into his lap. 

William resisted the urge to scowl. If this client knew anything about him, he’d know William had spent the last decade of his career patenting for various companies, selling them and defending them. He only nodded. 

Damian withdrew a broadsheet of papers and passed it to him. 

William picked then up and scanned over them. They were a blueprint, the technical drawings thin and sparse. He had expected it to be a pipe-dream, some kind of crackpot invention by a young handsome man with too much money, but it looked professionally done. 

Setting his whiskey down, William adjusted his glasses. He read the papers again, and then again. Realisation dawned slowly. The grip on the paper tightened. 

“This—!” William’s eyes went wide, “This is so unlike anything on the market but… I mean, I’m no expert on mechanical design, but this, this might really work!” 

“It does work,” Damian said, a with hint of annoyance.

“Do you know what you’ve got here?” William said, “An almost completely green engine… You’re… this could revolutionise car manufacture. Maybe all vehicle manufacture.” 

“Yes,” Damian said, “It will. How long will you take to patent it?” 

William heard his voice as it were very far away. He rubbed his eyes, “A month, maybe, at most.” 

“I see. I’m looking to begin production within a year,” Damian said.

“I can help you with auctioning off the lease,” Williams said, coming back to reality, “I have a lot of connections with businesses. Wayne Industries, in particular, would be very interesting in a product like this.” 

A strange look passed over Damian’s face, “Thank you, but I already have a company in mind for this. I’ll be using your services to negotiate the contract, however.” 

“Of course...” Williams stared down at the papers. The design was truly incredible, and if he didn’t know for a fact nothing even similar was on the market, he would be suspicious. Kent must be one of those shooting star geniuses, like Lex Luthor or Victor Fries. Although... he also hoped that Kent wasn’t totally like those two men, or at the very least, William didn’t get caught up with that side of him. William smoothed the papers over, “Of course. Let me get you my personal number, so we can talk more.” 

*

Harbour-point Manufacture, located on the outskirts of Happy Harbour city, was at the point of bankruptcy before Damian Kent visited. Taking over was barely a challenge. Damian negotiated a very favourable contract with the desperate board and turned the company around. He acted as their golden goose for a few months, releasing half a dozen more patents, while steadily buying up stock in the company with his exorbitant earnings. 

The company was in the right field, away from the larger cities, and most crucially, had no ties to any of the titans of industry like LexCorp or Queen Industries. But Damian had to admit that one of the big draws had been that after that terrible car ride, the universe had deposited him and Jon right in the company’s back yard. He wasn’t one to trust in fate, but it seemed like a sign. 

He had been trained since a child to run business and negotiate contracts and he found it almost tediously easy to swell the finances and continue to climb the stock market. By the end of the year, he had enough stock for a hostile takeover but put it to a vote instead. It was unanimous. 

Damian renamed the company as an anniversary present to Jon. 

*

Damian woke up to someone shaking his shoulders lightly. He blinked blearily and groaned. 

“You can’t sleep on the sofa,” Jon said, straightening up, “You’ll get back ache.” 

Damian massaged his eyes with the back of his hands. It took a surprising amount of effort, but he managed to pull himself up. Pain needled along his spine as he moved. “What time is it?” Damian murmured. 

“Almost five,” Jon padded to the open plan kitchen. The suite living room was a broad, open and empty place, the floor stretching uninterrupted to from door to window. The black marble tiles were only a week old, and pristine in a way that only very new buildings could be. 

Damian groaned, rubbing his temples. His whole body felt very heavy, as if his clothes were soaked with water. His stomach throbbed, dully. 

“Do you want something to eat?”

“Please,” Damian stretched, but his body didn’t wake up at all. He rubbed his sides and stood, padding over to the countertop. He pulled out a stool and flopped down. 

Jon dropped some bread in the toaster, “You look like shit.” 

“Ever the flatterer,” Damian muttered. His stomach panged painfully, as if someone was twisting a knife in it. He flinched. 

Jon noticed, eyebrows furrowing. He said nothing, jaw tightening. 

Damian had undergone surgeries and skin grafts and spent months healing from them but, despite their best efforts, the wound remained bad. It hadn’t been neat, and the stitches had been loosened and torn, so it had healed ugly and thick, still painful. 

“Coffee?” Jon asked, and began making it without waiting for a response. 

“Thank you,” Damian said, “I have a video call scheduled for eight.” 

“You never take a break, huh?” 

Jon’s voice had a note of worry in it. Damian swallowed his catty response, and considered a better one, “After this year, I’ll be able to take more of a backseat in the company.” 

“Only so you can focus on our real mission,” Jon raised an eyebrow at him, “That doesn’t count as time off.” 

Damian smiled sheepishly, “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Jon said, relaxing, “It’s your nature. But these days you need to take a break before you collapse.” 

That stung a little, but he was right. Damian was living on fumes. It wasn’t just his stomach scar. He remembered being eight and losing his balance while free climbing and falling to the bottom of the crevice he’d been climbing. Talia had splinted his legs, replaced the crushed organs and sent him back the next weekend. He hadn’t fallen again, or the time after. But his early childhood was full of times like that, beatings his body couldn’t take that were patched up by surgies every other week. 

When he had arrived in Gotham, it hadn’t been much better. Within the space of a year, Damian had been shot, stabbed, drowned, strangled, set on fire. Penguin had broken his ankles, Nobody had shattered his eardrums, Posion Ivy had infected him with a blight that had hospitalised him for a month. 

And that wasn’t even counting the year he had spent under Gotham Cemetary, decomposing. 

Jon set a cup of strong coffee in front of him and Damian gulped some down gratefully. He burned his tongue. 

“Do you remember your theory about the Brazilian dig?” Jon asked, catching the toast as it popped out of the toaster and fetching the butter. 

“Yes?” Damian replied, between gulps. In brainstorming reasons as to why Clark Kent went evil, one of the theories Damian had suggested was that a breakthrowing dig in Brazil that happened around time had been a trigger event. 

“I visited the site and X-Rayed as much as I could,” Jon said, “There might be something there, but I couldn’t find anything conclusive. There’s no kryptonite. Lots of ancient relics, though.” 

“It could be planted there at a later date,” Damian suggested. 

Jon scraped butter over the toast, “I thought that, but I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, why would anyone want dad to go so homicidal? Even Luthor is trying to get something concrete, and in that state Clark basically demolished society during a long weekend.” 

“Someone like the Joker?”

“Maybe...” Jon passed him the toast and picked up his own coffee, “It doesn’t really feel like him, either. I don’t think he’d go so far out of Gotham.” 

Damian took a big bite of toast, “Maybe they thought they could control him.” 

Jon sighed, “Well, they were wrong.” 

Damian chewed for a long moment, “It might have just been an accident.” 

“Yeah,” Jon said, “That’s what I’m worried about. An accident’s hard to account for.” 

Damian watched him over the rim of his coffee cup. Jon didn’t look as dead-tired as Damian did, but he was worn at the edges. It was still his father, after all, even after everything. Clark had been so kind, so loving, right up until when he wasn’t. It had left a wake very hard to recover from. 

Damian finished his coffee and set it down on the counter, “I’m cancelling my meeting.” 

“You are?” Jon perked up. 

“Yes,” Damian shuffled off the stool, “Get your coat. Let’s go have dinner.” 

“Oh sweet,” Jon beamed at him, “A year into our marriage and we can have our first date.” 

“I’m supposed to be the sarcastic one,” Damian said, texting his PA. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jon grinned, pulling on his jacket.


End file.
